


Love at First Flight

by starsplitter



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsplitter/pseuds/starsplitter
Summary: All Commander Jonathan Archer ever wanted is fly the vessel that breaks Warp 2 barrier for the first time.But as the proverbial unlucky card is dealt and A.G. Robinson gets the assignment instead, Jonathan Archer finds himself lucky to meet a certain Lt. Charles Tucker III instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite (if slightly unbalanced) ENT pairings is and always has been A/Tu. There's just something in that serious case of hero worship that has made me wonder ... Well, this is my attempt. 
> 
> Spoilers for season 2, ep. 24 "First Flight" (obviously).  
> Unbeta'd, and as per usual comments, criticism and kudos are most welcome :)

He is beautiful.

 

There’s simply no other way to poignantly describe him: his dishwater blond hair, accurately parted in the morning, that gets more and more mussed and disheveled as he’s crawling aroundin the engineering department as the day progresses.

His blue eyes, bright and curious, alongside with a face so full of expression and so animated he’s basically an open book.

I’ve studied his mannerisms for a while now, as discreet as one can do (at least that’s what I am trying to tell myself). When he gets frustrated or agitated — or when he is very focused —, his tongue flicks out and sometimes simply rests between his lips. Then there is the way he sucks his breath in with a hiss, only to let it out through his nostrils in a long huff when he’s pissed off.

He does that a lot when he talks to the Vulcans. Not that I can blame him.

He is hot-headed, oftentimes talks faster than he thinks — I’ve seen him put a foot in his mouth sideways on numerous occasions.

Yet despite his somewhat brash nature he is kind-hearted, committed to doing what’s right. A lot of times he takes this trait to a fault, it seems.

 

Admittedly, the first time I heard him talk I cringed.

The Southern drawl. The slick, self-assured charm, as cliché as the fact he refers to his mother as “momma”.

 _He’s a goddamn hick_.

I thought there was a good chance he probably still sung praise to Robert E. Lee and the confederate flag after he’s had a few too many.

And for a moment that really almost did it for me — how could someone (who looked like a young Grecian deity, mind you) be so _backwards_?

 

I’ve quickly learned not to judge a book by its cover here.

While he might seem like a country bumpkin at first glance — all pan-fried catfish, moonshine and hunting trips with his brother — there is so much more about him that people easily dismiss if they don’t bother to take a second look.

He is brilliant: His grades range among the best of his year. Top two percent.

And he makes everything look effortless; warp theory seems to come just as easy to him as crawling around in tight engineering spaces, figuring out which EPS conduit exactly just got fried. His “problem solving skills” are “creative”, so they say — he’s not afraid to think outside the box and doesn’t fear using slightly unorthodox methods sometimes.

 

The first time his name was mentioned, I already knew I wouldn’t forget about it anytime soon.

 

Charles Tucker III.

 

More often than not, people addressed him by his nickname though: _Trip_.

 _Trip_ Tucker.

 

There’s a chance this is the dumbest nickname I’ve ever heard.

 

 

***

 

Things haven’t been going too well lately.

Commodore Forest had called me into his office yesterday, only to let me know that against all of my expectations he was going to hand the assignment of our first flight out to A.G. Robinson.

Admittedly, I had been cocky enough to waltz into the room like I knew it was going to be me flying the shuttle. Like I deserved it.

Seeing that my father developed and built the engine ... Well.

In hindsight I do understand Commodore Maxwell Forrest’s decision: Handing the assignment out to me, Jonathan Archer (son of Henry Archer) would have reeked of nepotism.

Insert A.G. Robinson. A brilliant pilot. Who doesn’t happen to have any family ties to the project, which simply looks better in the public eye.

But my God, he is an asshole.

 

All in all it had been a mediocre week — and the revelation in Forrest’s office was the icing on the figurative cake of shittiness.

I tried to play it cool, but I think my disappointment was more than palpable. Forrest isn’t that hard to read and he had this apologetic, pitiful tone in his voice that made the whole conversation all the worse.

On top of that, not getting the assignment made me feel like I had failed my father and left a stale, bitter taste in my mouth as I left Forrest’s office and beyond.

 

 

***

 

I remember the last years of my father’s life like they were yesterday.

By that point, the disease had progressed to an extent where he was hallucinating often, thinking he was at the Warp Five Complex, talking to his imaginary colleagues.

In one instant he even recapped a conversation he had had with Dr. Cochrane, despite the fact that Cochrane had vanished several years prior.

It was like time stood still in the life of Henry Archer.

But while he imagined and relive entire workdays at the Complex in all of their minute details, there were days where he didn’t recognize me or mother.

 

I can still recall the first time it happened.

His confusion as I had entered the room.

I sensed he felt bad about it, but he didn’t remember my name. Instead, he looked at me like I was a stranger who just had intruded his privacy — and eventually he asked who I was.

Giving him this simple answer was too big of a thing to do: Trying to process what had just happened and understanding what it meant in regards to the progression of the disease of occupied all of my mental and emotional capacities.

 

From there on, instances like these became the new normal.

We knew this was part of the disease. We were told that eventually this was going to happen.

But that didn’t make things easier, especially not on my mother.

Imagine seventeen years erased from the memory of the person you love the most. Simply gone.

It’s a nightmare.

 

The last months of his life, dad drifted in and out of consciousness — a side effect of the strong painkillers that were administered via an IV drip he was permanently hooked up to.

That and the monitor above my parents’ bed had transformed their bedroom into a strange, sterile environment reeking of sanitizer and medical equipment.

 

For the brief moments dad was awake, he was hallucinating, his thoughts becoming more and more bizarre.

 

I was twelve when he finally passed away. He never witnessed the engine he developed being finished.

Losing my father was like losing my compass, marking the end of my sheltered youth.

 

***

 

I go out to the 602 after the unpleasant visit to Forrest’s office that night, mainly to get hammered — alone.

Both of which are a bad idea: Drinking alone after bad news is never recommended.

Neither is going to the 602, since this is where everyone in Starfleet and their brother hangs out after their shifts.

Especially a certain pilot, who happened to celebrate getting the assignment for first flight alongside his entire entourage.

 

Great.

 

Overthinking my decision logically would probably have helped to avoid an unpleasant situation like this. Or maybe I am just _that_ masochistic.

Ruby trots by, giving me the same pitiful look that Forrest had just given me hours earlier in his office.

 

“You all right?”

She eyes me suspiciously.

 

“Sure, why?”

 

I am a bad liar.

And Ruby is sharp as a tack — she might be bartending her life away in a somewhat seedy establishment like the 602, but she’s not only street smart, but also book smart.

 

“The last time you had this much to drink was the day Caroline moved to New Berlin. My guess is Forrest gave out the assignment today,” she’s perfectly calm while she delivers what feels like a verbal blow to the gut.

 

“Sherlock Holmes has nothing on you,” my reply is a little more grouchy than intended.

 

“They'll need a pilot for the next flight,” trying to sound upbeat, her statement ends up being exactly the opposite. There’s a fine line where positivity becomes toxic and belittling.

 

“Do you remember what Buzz Aldrin said when he stepped on the moon?,” I snap at her.

 

“No.” She shrugs.

 

“Nobody does, because Armstrong went first.”

My tone is rude and I feel bad about it. It’s true though. It doesn’t matter that Aldrin was part of the pioneering team. Those who went second usually end up as a footnote in the history books.

 

My cynicism must’ve been too much for her, because she casts me another pitiful look and moves on to the next table to collect a couple wine glasses.

I get up and do what I have to do: Congratulating A.G. on the assignment he doesn’t deserve. I can only imagine the smug look on his face that will ensue.

I move over to the bar, where celebrations are in full swing already.

 

“Congratulations,” I try to not sound too upset while we shake hands.

 

A.G. stays skeptical though.

“You mean that?”

 

Yeah, kind of. On the other hand, a part of me would absolutely like to punch him in the face.

 

“Of course not. I'm waiting for Forrest to realize what a horrible mistake he made. Until then, let me buy you a drink.”

I resort to sarcasm, but I’m sure that A.G. knows that beneath the joviality of my statement there’s a layer of bitterness.

 

“No, I'll buy you one. Consolation prize. Two more, Leo.”

He watches me intently as the bartender hands me my pint.

As if a beer could fix this. I take a long swig. 

“To Commander A. G. Robinson. We all worked hard to get this flight, but in the end the best pilot won. Just ask him. AG.”

I raise my glass in his direction and his entourage follows suit

 

I look at A.G. Robinson as he downs almost the entire pint with the same air of smugness and superiority that accompanies most of his actions.

 

“Take it easy Commander, you're due in the simulator at oh seven hundred. First flight's in two weeks,” I chide him jokingly.

I know that A.G. can drink like a fucking fish. He has a cast iron stomach and a hangover has hardly ever kept him from doing anything.

 

“You know why you didn't get this assignment?” He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform.

 

Ah, here we go. The great A.G. is going to reveal to me exactly why I failed.

 

“I bet you're going to tell me.” My sarcasm is biting, but he either is too tipsy to realize or he conveniently ignores it.

 

“You tried too hard. You did everything by the book. You burned the midnight oil in that simulator, eighteen, twenty hour days. You shut everything and everyone out of your life just so you could be the first.”

 

I didn’t ‘try too hard’ — it’s called passion. Commitment. Having a goddamn _vision_.

 

“And?” I suck in a deep breath, trying to keep my cool.

 

“You still don't understand. Starfleet doesn't just want a great pilot. They want a great captain.”

 

He sounds so self-assured.

Like he knows it all, like he had easily figured out the whole entire game.

Yet it was me who had been there the _whole entire time_ — I’ve witnessed the process: The first drafts on large sheets of tracing paper, depicting my father’s vision. How he sat, hunched over his desk, calculating and re-calculating its specifics, into the wee hours of the morning.

 

My father had a vision.

Unlike A.G., who sees this merely as a competition, eager to use his fame to get to the finer things in life.

I’m well aware of how he’s eyeing Ruby and some of our fellow female coworkers

(usually the tall and slender type).

I watch as A.G. and his entourage leaves the 602 to continue their celebratory pub crawl somewhere else.

 

 

Unsurprisingly, I get shitfaced that night like nobody’s business.

I try to get a taxi back to my apartment, but the driver flat out refuses to pick me up as he sees me stumble along, simply driving by as I unsteadily wave my hand in the air to get his attention.

I know that he sees me.

 

Somewhere around 45th Street I leave a trail of puke along the wall of an apartment complex.

I still have no idea how I actually ended up getting home to my apartment.

 

 

I also had no idea that night that just a couple weeks later, I’d meet Trip Tucker III for the first time in my life.

 

 

***

 

A.G. might be a fine pilot, but he is also notoriously difficult to work with and more often than not his ego gets in the way of things.

He’s pissed people off left and right before, and the fact that he happened to be picked for first flight only made this character trait worse.

On top of that, he also disobeys orders, citing his “experience” and gut feeling whenever he chooses to do so — like he had flown a warp vessel numerous times before.

 

We had been working all night get a problem with the stabilization protocols figured out and hadn’t been altogether too successful, at least not by the time A.G. prepared for liftoff.

Right now he’s in orbit, but still not cleared to go to warp as we run around like a bunch of headless chicken, trying to go through all possible scenarios to avoid a potential catastrophe.

 

“NX control. I thought we built a warp ship so we could go to warp,” A.G.’s sarcasm is biting.

 

“Maintain your orbit. We're trying to run down a problem with the stabilisation protocols.” I sigh. He’s never going to change. Also, it should be me up there in the cockpit, but I digress.

 

“I saw Italy go by again. If this is going to take much longer, maybe you can send up some food.”

 

I’d like to chew him out right then and there, but first of all that would be out of line and second he kind of has a point. It’s taking us forever to fix the problem. So instead I force a pained grin and ask him:

 

“What can I get you?”

 

“How about some of those deep fried mushrooms from the 602?”

 

He’s funny, you’ve got to give him that. I chuckle.

 

“I'll send Ruby up to take your order.”

 

He’s breaking up for a bit, a crackle of static noise echoing through my headset, but I can make out a faint laughter.

 

Just seconds after out banter I get the OK from flight control that we are good to go. I can feel my adrenaline pumping, the familiar rush I’ve been expecting.

This is what I had been waiting, hoping for all my life. This is what _he_ had been hoping for.

It’s a bittersweet moment — like a circle closing, decades apart; but for a brief second I can feel my father’s presence and it almost seems like we become one, united by this vision of ours.

The thought brings tears to my eyes and I blink rapidly to keep my surroundings from becoming blurry.

And right at this second it doesn’t even bother me as much that I am not the one flying the vessel.

I feel strangely at peace with the situation.

 

 

I am not so much at peace with the situation anymore as I witness A.G. being A.G., disobeying orders again and by that essentially screwing up _everything_ — ignoring the signal to abort the mission as the warp field becomes unstable resulting in the complete destruction of the vessel.

Robinson is able to get away via an escape pod at the last minute.

But instead of being thankful that he survived, he shows very little remorse about essentially destroying everything we had worked for, while at the same time claiming that the abort call was premature and that the Warp field would have stabilized itself after a while.

I swear to God I would have liked to strangle him if it wasn’t for all the high-ranking Starfleet brass and the Vulcans being in the vicinity.

 

Our pointy-eared guardians come to a quick conclusion: Obviously the engine design must be unsound.

My blood is boiling.

 

And apparently I am not the only one who feels that way.

Because just minutes after the statement has been made I hear a very drawled out, but nonetheless very agitated:

 

“There’s nothing wrong with that engine.”

Jumping down some steps comes a young lieutenant, tongue between his lips; blond, slightly wavy hair, snub nose.

 

 

And this is how I met Trip Tucker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip Tucker enters the scene. Things go south at the 602 (but not in a good way).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not dead! Just very busy and plagued by occasional bouts of writer's block. I promise I will be better about updating this story in the future ...  
> Thanks to all of you who have left comments and for your patience!

For a moment it is so quiet in the room you could hear a pin drop.

Some of the officers standing close by have this horrified look on their faces and I could swear even the Vulcans — controlled emotions and all — look visibly offended and enraged.

Part of me wants to think it’s hilarious: The stuffiness of the environment only exacerbates how this guy (who seemingly appeared out of nowhere) has managed to derail the entire situation with a single sentence — as if the situation could derail any further.

On the other hand I am pissed, mainly at A.G., but also at the Vulcans with their arrogance and their stupid little hair cuts.

The vessel is scrap metal at best now, the engine has been blown to bits, and worst of all — A.G. still gets to claim bragging rights for having been the first one to fly the ship.

And apparently also the only one.

 

Great.

Just great.

 

Suddenly things don’t look so funny anymore.

 

 

Maxwell Forrest isn’t an intimidating person by any means, but he can be damn unpleasant when he’s angry — and that’s exactly what he is. He’s furious.

Even A.G., who a couple minutes ago was shaken up pretty good from the whole ordeal, seems distracted by the hubbub going on.

 

“You have something to add, Lieutenant…?” Forrest snarls and I can sense he’s having a hard time to keep his composure.

 

Whoa.

If I were that guy I’d definitely not want to be at the receiving end of this.

Especially not if I was only a Lieutenant.

He doesn’t seem to be affected by Forrest’s threatening demeanor at all though.

His voice remains just as loud and firm as the first time he spoke, much to my surprise (and probably A.G.’s as well, who relishes the fact that he is usually the first one to talk back as soon as there’s an opportunity to do so).

 

“Tucker, sir. I’m on Captain Jefferies’ engineering team. We've never pumped this much antimatter through the injectors before. It's going to take us a little time to get the intermix right.”

 

I suck in a sharp breath, eyeing up the lieutenant whose first name still is a mystery to me so far. I’m racking my brain, trying to find out whether I might have met him before. Jefferie’s engineering team, that must mean he’s about ten years …

“That's precisely the point! Your program is moving too quickly,”

One of the Vulcans takes a bold step forward; his heavy, coat-like robe making a shuffling noise as he moves.

My train of thought is abruptly interrupted.

 

I see Tucker’s eyes squint and his tongue darts out once again, resting briefly between his lips.

 

“Just because it took you a hundred years to crack warp two doesn't mean it'll take us that long.”

 

The statement is full of what my maternal grandmother aptly used to describe with the word “sass”.

I peek at A.G., who’s facial expression seems to hover somewhere between surprise, disgust and admiration.

 

“Lieutenant!” Forrest hisses, clearly concerned this is about to become a major diplomatic snafu.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Tucker throws in, looking like he sincerely feels bad about his offhand comment.

 

Before I can get more distracted by the young Lieutenant and his volatile tongue (a thought that, in return, unleashes a domino effect of other thoughts of a completely different nature) I remind myself that this is too important than to ponder on the fact it’s been a while. Since Caroline left for New Berlin, to be precise, and that’s been … I don’t even want to go there.

 

“He's right. This is a new engine. It’s bound to have a few bugs to work out,” my voice is shaking, like that of a schoolboy having been summoned to the principal’s office.

 

One of the Vulcans glares at me, one eyebrow raised almost to the edge of his neatly trimmed bangs.

 

“Those _bugs_ just scattered your ship across five thousand kilometers of space and nearly killed your pilot.”

He knows he’s delivered a knockout argument. I huff in frustration because … well, what am I supposed to say? If A.G. had actually followed orders maybe I could come up with something better. Or anything at all, for that matter.

 

“We're not going to get anywhere without taking some risks,” A.G. throws in.

I’m pretty sure I just saw Forrest roll his eyes while Robinson isn’t looking.

 

“I know where you stand on this, Commander,” Forrest retorts with the resignation of a mother trying to persuade her unruly toddler to sit still.

 

“We've got a lot of data to analyze before we know what happened. We should be grateful we only lost the ship,” I try to make them sound conciliatory, but as the words roll off the tip of my tongue I know the point I’m making is weak.

The Vulcans have the upper hand on this one — thanks to A.G.

And thanks to our unwillingness to stand our ground as members of the project.

As the meeting dissolves and everyone makes their way to exit the conference room Forrest and all other high-ranking Starfleet officers look like anxious dogs tucking their tails.

A.G. has a point: With an attitude like that, we’re still gonna try for Warp 2 a hundred years from now.

 

I’m about to turn around and leave the room when I realize that the lieutenant — Tucker — is still standing behind me in the corner, awkwardly moving from one foot to the other.

I feel bad for him for getting chewed out in front of everyone simply because he wanted to defend the project — but most of all I feel bad because I was about to simply take off without even acknowledging what he did for the project. For my father’s engine.

 

“Hey.”

 

He swiftly looks up as I call him, his gaze somewhere between skeptical and contemplative.

 

“You, er, … You wanna go out for a drink at the 602, Lieutenant?”

 

I add the rank and immediately think it might have been a bad idea, because his gaze shifts from skeptical to almost frightful. He probably expects another verbal beating now.

Then a grin spreads on his face.

 

“Sure, Sir.”

 

 

***

 

 

A couple years ago — we had worked together for long enough to feel comfortable to share private matters with each other — I had revealed to A.G. that I was bisexual.

I learned at this point that, as intelligent as A.G. Robinson was, he was either an asshole or ignorant (in hindsight I know that depending on the situation, both was absolutely a possibility). To him, I was basically gay while lying to myself by having a girlfriend from time to time.

He aggressively started pointing out young cadets at the Headquarter to me, until one day I lost my cool and announced I was gonna sock him in the jaw if he didn’t knock it off already.

He reacted like A.G would react: a smug smile, a shrug; but after that he really did leave it alone.

Not too long after I met Caroline and the relationship became serious enough for both of us — and A.G. — to think that it might last for a lifetime.

Until we both decided to put our careers first and our bond fizzled out until it finally vanished — quietly and steadily.

Thinking back at how everything unfolded I’m still overcome by a faint feeling of sadness and frustration. How things between us didn’t last is beyond me, but then again a relationship — yet alone a marriage — doesn’t make much sense if you’re perpetually living in two different regions of space.

Caroline had her mind set to the captain’s chair as much as I did; and neither one of us was willing to compromise on that one.

 

Ruby bringing our drinks pulls me out of my thoughts.

And there is something else going on that’s peculiar. Tucker starts throwing out names while the red-haired waitress is setting down full pints of beer and picking up empty glasses from the table next to ours.

 

“Cyrus.” Tucker leans over to her.

 

Ruby gives him a disdained look.

 

“Cyrus,” she repeats, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

I’m so confused I can’t hold back and throw in a “Who’s Cyrus?”.

 

“It was my grandfather’s name!” Tucker replies, his voice swelling with pride.

I have the feeling I’m becoming the third wheel here.

 

Ruby’s reaction gives me a bit of hope.

“Keep trying, Tucker…” she trails off, but her voice makes it clear she wants anything but.

 

“Chester. How about Rosalie if it's a girl? Come on, give me a hint.”

 

Ruby sighs theatrically and leaves us to our drinks.

 

Tucker turns around to me, his face lit up by an almost boyish grin.

 

“She's had names for her kids picked out since she was ten. Says she'll marry the first man to guess them.”

 

I can barely refrain from rolling my eyes. I always had a hunch Ruby might be more of a traditional type, but this was some straight-up 1950s bullshit — naturally someone like Tucker would take the bait and go for this kind of crap, his ego and machismo eager as ever.

‘ _Meanwhile I’m going for someone like Tucker_ ,’ I add sourly.

 

I guess that maybe I was barking up the wrong tree after all, as A.G. likes to put it. To make the best out of an already mediocre day, I opt for smalltalk instead.

 

“What's your name, Lieutenant?”

 

“Charles Tucker, sir, but everyone calls me Trip.”

 

_What?_

 

“Trip.” I parrot incredulously.

 

“My dad's Charles Tucker, and so was his dad. That makes me the third, so triple. Trip.”

 

I’m not sure whether I should appreciate the subtle humor — if there is subtle humor, that is — or chalk it as yet another Southern tradition that I have no clue about.

 

"Thanks with your help today with our Vulcan friends, Trip. My father would have appreciated it.” While I am not exactly sure whether Charles Tucker … Trip, I correct myself, is on my wavelength, I still think very highly of him. He could have put his career on the line with what he said earlier in the day.

 

“I don't get it. It’s like they want us to fail,” he sighs heavily, staring at the drink inn front of him. He looks somber, his boyish appearance fading.

Maybe Trip Tucker isn’t as one-dimensional as I thought him to be.

 

I sigh and stare off into space for a bit. Memories of my father, hunched over at the desk in his office, come rolling in: The image is crystal clear, almost like it’s happening right now. All my life I’ve probably seen my father’s back more than his face — always working, always absorbed in designing and calculating.

 

“I gave up trying to figure out the Vulcans a long time ago.”

While we were both lost in thought we didn’t hear Forrest approach.

 

I jump immediately and Tucker all of a sudden looks very uneasy. We both awkwardly get up.

 

“Commodore,” I begin.

 

“At ease.” He cuts me off, waving his hand, “may I?”

 

“Of course,” I reply, but honestly I’m not too thrilled that Forrest is following us around. To show up at the 602 of all places.

He plops himself down and looks around, his brow furrowed.

 

“Can I buy you a drink, Sir?” Tucker must feel even more uneasy than I do.

 

Forrest snorts and turns his head away, lowering his voice slightly.

“It's the least you can do after that outburst today.”

 

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to.”

The young lieutenant looks miserable now. If Forrest doesn’t stop hounding him soon I’m going to step in. To put my career on the line. I awkwardly drum on the table. 

 

“I'll have a beer, Mister Tucker.”

He unzips his jacket and loosens his tie, moving around in the cheap bar chair to get more comfortable. Then he takes his sweet time looking around.

 

“It's been a while since I've been in here. I see it hasn't changed much.”

 

Maybe it’s the beer, but I am starting to get impatient. I don’t know what Forrest is doing in here and frankly, he has no business frequenting this place anyway. There’s a reason you never see Starfleet brass in here. This dive is for us, the rank and file, only.

 

“Is there something on your mind, Sir?” That was definitely the beer talking. My question comes out a little sharper, a little more tense than I intended.

The Commodore either doesn’t seem to notice, or he simply lets it go. At least that’s what I think at first — because the next thing he does is drop a bombshell like no other.

 

“I came here to tell you at the urging of the Vulcan Advisory Council, that Starfleet Command has decided to put the NX program on hold.”

That would explain Forrest’s subtle pissy attitude when he came in. My jaw drops.

 

“For how long?” I choke out.

 

“Indefinitely,” he snarls back.

 

Tucker’s eyes are wide as saucers, shock written all over his face. He doesn’t even really acknowledge Ruby, who trots by again to take his order after he had waved her over to our table.

 

“Gentlemen?” I’m pretty sure she senses there’s something going on here.

 

“One beer.” Tucker’s request is laced with disappointment.

 

“What do you mean, indefinitely?” Why is this like pulling teeth, goddammit?

 

“They want to go back to the drawing board, Jon. Develop a new engine from scratch,” Forrest rasps.

_What?_

 

“We have an engine that works now. If we start over, it'll be decades before we get into deep space.” My voice has gotten significantly louder at this point. A couple cadets turn around to us. I don’t like having this many eyes on us.

 

“Starfleet's made its decision,” Forrest retorts stubbornly.

 

I’m furious.

Tucker chimes in.

 

“Permission to speak freely, sir? It's your father's engine. His life's work. You can't let them do this.”

 

We both stare in disbelief as Forrest shrugs with a pained expression on his face; gets up, grabs his jacket and heads to the door.

 

_‘Well, shit.’_

 

 

Our long, somber silence is interrupted by Robinson coming in.

I roll my eyes as he carelessly hangs up his leather flight jacket over one of the chairs. Could this day get any fucking worse?

 

“Bourbon, straight up,” he grumbles in Ruby’s direction.

 

“I suppose you heard,” I snarl.

 

“This is really going to throw a wrench in my career plans,” there’s just enough well-tempered sarcasm in his voice to really make my blood boil.

 

_‘It’s your own damn fault, asshole.’_

 

Ruby puts down his drink and he lingers around some more before finally plopping himself down at the table next to us. Then he finishes his drink in one big gulp.

She looks at him with a certain type of disdain she reserves for very few people.

 

“Last call. Anything else?”

 

“I’ll have another,” he eyes her backside as she walks away.

 

“Where have you been all day?” I’ve been dying to ask him. He didn’t have the decency to show up after this morning’s disaster, which makes me believe he’s actually as spineless as I suspected him to be.

 

“Debriefing. After the flight surgeons were done with me I got hauled in front of the Starfleet senior staff and the Vulcans.”

 

“What'd you tell them?” Trip cuts in.

 

“What do you think? The subspace field destabilised at warp two point two. Primary flight controls failed, resulting in the loss of the vehicle,” A.G. snaps back, eyeing Tucker suspiciously.

 

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

Now Trip is getting bold. I can see where he’s going with that.

 

“What?”

 

“The possibility of pilot error.” The lieutenant adds extra emphasis on the word ‘error’ to make the remark sting some more. I’m suddenly filled with a strange sense of pride, like a Little League baseball dad on the sideline.

 

“I'm not interested in your opinion, Lieutenant,” Robinson growls.

Pulling rank as a last resort. Very creative.

 

“You should be. The Vulcans have been leaning on Starfleet for years to rein in this program. You walked in there today, ruled out pilot error, and told them just what they wanted to hear. Our engine doesn't work,” I remark, letting A.G. know I’m getting real tired of his antics.

 

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Archer, but it doesn't work.”

 

“The engine's sound. We just need more time to balance the intermix,” even Tucker raises his voice now.

 

“We need more than time,” A.G. swirls his drink around in his glass.

 

“I agree. We need a pilot who listens to orders. If you aborted, we'd still have a ship and probably another chance,” I’m hoping that my words sting, but I know that A.G. has a damn thick skin, so he probably doesn’t care.

 

“Another chance to what, get killed?” His reaction tells me that maybe he’s not as thick-skinned as I thought.

 

“At the first sign of trouble, you should've throttled down.”

“It wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference.”

 

_‘Bullshit.’_

 

“I guess we'll never find out,” I reply and feel a rush of defeat wash over me. There goes my lifelong dream. Because someone’s inflated ego got in the way.

 

“You weren't in that cockpit,” Robinson’s aggression is more than palpable.

 

“There's nothing wrong with that ship!” I slap my hands on the table in frustration.

 

“There's plenty wrong. You just refuse to see it.”

 

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

 

I can feel this reach a boiling point, and judging from Tucker’s expression I’m not the only one.

 

“Every time there's a problem with this project, you blame it on pilot error or gravitational anomalies, or some technical malfunction,” A.G. stabs a finger in the air and waves it around for a bit.

“Well, you're going to have to face the truth this time, because there's nothing left to point an finger at. Your father designed a lousy engine.”

 

 

For a short while it’s like everything reverts to slow-motion and the memories come pouring in.

Tracing paper and calculators on a work desk. Flying little model ships on lazy Sunday afternoons, being reminded that “Ambassador Pointy” is not the proper way to address the Vulcan official.

The way he repeated it, again and again: “ _When the engine is built_ ” …

This was his dream.

His life.

 

“ _Your father designed a lousy engine_.”

 

The words echo, they sting like acid pouring over my skin and before I can think of any eloquent response I do the only thing appropriate for this situation:

 

 

I drive my fist into A.G. Robinson’s face as hard as I can.


End file.
